TSM 131

Did you hear the one about the alcoholic liver
that went on a road trip with Jim Morrison, Janis,
and Jimi? Me neither but your wife
snatches the phone from your ear
while you cough in spasms of laughter
and screams at me what are you trying to do kill him?
because your liver isn't coming home from on tour either
 
I ask you what it is like to die, is it interesting
at all or just boring or a pain in the ass do you
wish it was finally all over and before
she can click off the call I manage to yell
I want a preview and can hear you choking
but a good choking like the bong hit really landed
deep when we were in high school
and said stupid shit like death is the ultimate trip.
 
Only you and I know what I stole from you,
girlfriends were fair game but I took your poem
and never gave it back, it's still here in my pocket
where I unfold its origami of blotter acid
like rolling down Colorado Boulevard
with you at the wheel tripping Van Gogh, me riding
Dali shotgun, and Liz our very own
Kahlo shouting Lucky’s speech
from Waiting for Godot out the windows
 
The words of yours I took were more precious
than sex or dope or rock and roll in one perfect
moment, everything I had in me needing transgression,
needing violation, opened naked opened like
the doors of your car at the red light with me
puking tequila and pinto beans
from the all you can eat buffet at Casa Bonita
 
How long now have you lived without poetry,
how long have I held friendship hostage
to words, how much of you is on every page
I write, how much unspoken has been dying
between us for years and I stole
what I wanted to say on the phone
 
If I'll see you no more in this world*
I'll meet ya on the next one
Don't be late
Don't be late





                                                                                              *Apologies to Mr. Hendrix

The Sunday Muse

30 thoughts on “TSM 131

  1. Youth’s little rollicking road trip turned dark here, full of the debts we owe the fates each other, and the road itself, if those entities can really be separated.There’s a web of occurrence, of obligation, of remorse here that tangles good intentions. “Only you and I know what I stole from you..” A diagram of how we are shaped by those we care for, and vice versa. You throw in a lot of humor, but it’s the kind they rightfully call gallows. Love all the pop culture references and the seamless way you work in the image so that it becomes iconic of a far more personal journey. Fine writing, even if it is ghosted by a hidden hand.We all have stolen something that makes us from those we have loved.

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    1. Thank you for such a generous response (as you always do!) Yes, those parts of us that we have from others: what is a gift, what is theft, when are those the same, and who could possibly know between them?

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  2. I think we all lose pieces of ourselves in this journey called “life”, stolen or given away for free or perhaps a bit of both. “how long have you lived without poetry” poetry is around us everywhere and
    yet, I wonder, why sometimes it is difficult to find? It could be Poe, Robert Frost, Yeats or Dickinson.
    I guess it depends on the mood of the day. This piece begs the question how do we get back what is gone?

    Sex, drugs and rock n’ roll and the open road that leads to unknown realms.

    I think “only you and I know what I stole from you” this one line holds so much truth, pain and sorrow.

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      1. Ah the folly of youth Sex drugs rock and roll was not all it was cracked up to be….We are still alive …still here… a lot nicer a lot wiser and we still dont know everything:)

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Well I love this. Who hasn’t done something in youth that they feel guilty about years later? But more than that I admire the way you’ve constructed this poem. It’s both surreal and specific, pedestrian and fantastic. It pulls the rug out and the rug starts flying. I’m digging this on re-read and re-re-read.

    And of course, whenever you roll down Colorado Blvd, you must make way for the little old lady from Pasadena.

    This may be my favorite of yours, ever.

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    1. Wow! Thanks so much. Always so interesting what connects and why. Appreciate a great deal you like the way it progressed and hung together (or not, or whatever it did). Little old lady from Pasadena — vroom!!!

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  4. Oh, I have a lot of things I could pour into regret tequila, but time doesn’t run backwards and I’d probably make new ones if it did. Love the whole poem. The fourth stanza really hits me!

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  5. Too bad your writer kept her poem. Give it back and she might be writing here also.
    Also maybe the wife would give back the phone. Its almost a necessity.
    Nice read content wise but the mechanics of reading were hard for me.
    ..

    Liked by 1 person

  6. This is a profoundly moving poem………….it builds towards that poignant ending – “I’ll see you no more in this world…..meet you in the next………dont be late”…….

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  7. I agree with Helen, this was so worth the 2 week wait Qbit! Relationships can hold so many things that we carry with us to the grave. This is a deep and amazing poem! Definitely one of your finest my poet friend! I love it!!

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      1. I put in a brief comment @ Imprompt.
        It was an interesting time for me in the late 1960’s… I was living in Greenwich Village, NY.
        But we (me I guess) didn’t think anything abnormal about it. Pizza was a quarter a slice. A mile in a cab cost $1 with an acceptable tip of a dime. I was in a Jr. High then. A misfit of the 1960’s… And still more than less a misfit today – and proud of it! 😀

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        1. Nice!! ABM – “Always Be Misfitting” You and Jimi and Janice probably were chatting together on a park bench one afternoon. I think you loaned Jimi a dime to make a phone call. You liked Janis’s rose sunglasses if I recall. The pigeons ate your pizza crust.

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          1. Thanks… I was never one to make a fuss over anyone who thought they were a celebrates. I wasn’t afraid to walk by myself in the city. After all I lived there… that was then. Now I wouldn’t go near a large city by myself.

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